


Midsummer

by kuiske



Series: Close [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Mild Angst, dworin week on tumblr, no warnings save for non graphic alcohol abuse and hungover dwarves, uncomfortable and awkward idiots talk about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:47:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4234341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuiske/pseuds/kuiske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He figured he’d have the ale to blame. It wasn’t the only reason, but he’d blame it nevertheless.</i><br/> <br/>(Posted for dworin week on tumblr, loosely based on the prompt "seasons".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midsummer

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I'm not making money with this.

Thorin wasn’t generally fond of how close the Mannish village lay to the dwarven settlement of Ered Luin. He could remember Dale from his youth, of course. The city had lain close enough to the gates of Erebor that even a dwarf as young as he had been was sometimes allowed to visit under strict supervision of retrospectively probably very stressed out guards, but here there was barely a border between the two villages, and that a mental one more than physical. There were some practical benefits to it – the Men could hire dwarven craftsmen almost as easily as their own kind, which was good for business. Few people who knew the true skill of dwarven hands would spurn their crafts regardless of how they felt about their race otherwise. Still, there was something deeply unsettling about living so close together. Even more so since in exile they couldn’t afford to live deep beneath the stone like they would have preferred to, but on the surface or barely below it. One had to be grateful for small mercies, he knew. They were no longer wandering the Middle Earth sleeping in tents, after all, and their dwellings were rock instead of wood in Mannish fashion. Thorin didn’t have a habit of complaining aloud, but he longed for the comforting feel of being surrounded by familiar stone with bitter wistfulness.

The dwarves of Erebor had taken a better part of a decade to get used to having Mannish neighbours so close by, and longer still to feel comfortable. All dwarves had some experience of the prejudice against their race, but dwarves on the move and without a place to call their own felt it much more keenly. Thorin wasn’t quick to trust by nature, and being constantly on his guard against assault from anyone or everyone around him had unsurprisingly not made him more so. The Men accustomed to dwarves were polite for the most part, though, so they got along. Especially since most of them understood that a key to politeness as far as dwarves saw it was that strangers should mind their own business unless invited to make conversation. Thorin was almost legendarily disinclined to make such invitations, or accept them at that.

The Mannish celebration of midsummer was a rare exception to the rule. Now, there were very few dwarves who saw cause to celebrate bright sunlight and excessive greenness that crept up even to the rocky soil at the foot of the mountains, but they didn’t feel like offending their neighbours over such trivial matters. It didn’t hurt that the manner of celebration seemed to involve little more than ale and hard liquor distilled from grain or apples, and the Men considered it to be bad luck not to offer a drink to every person they came across with. As it happened, most dwarves considered it ill luck to refuse free drink, so unless they had pressing engagements that required sobriety, the dwarves spent the midsummer night quite as drunk as their taller neighbours.

Not that Thorin was drunk.

He was slightly tipsy, perhaps, but most definitely not drunk. Even if it was very late and he had a little trouble keeping up with Dwalin, who absolutely certainly was drunk. And currently tripping over his own boots it would seem. Thorin snickered. Some dwarves just couldn’t hold their liquor.

It really was a pity he couldn’t seem to think anything appropriately witty to say to his friend who was lying face down in the grass with no apparent desire to get up. He could, however, come up with _several_ rather unflattering comments as Dwalin grabbed him by the leg and yanked him down with him. On him, to be precise.

”Traitor,” Thorin grumbled. The grass was wet with dew and hardly an ideal place to stop when their dwellings weren’t far away. He would’ve stood back up, but the world was spinning curiously and he couldn’t quite figure out which way was up at the moment.

”’m not,” Dwalin slurred. He was struggling feebly to free himself from beneath Thorin, who admittedly didn’t bother to provide any sort of assistance.

”But you, yer royal highness, are the King of sharp bones and dead weight and crushing me.”

”Serves you right. Traitor,” Despite his words Thorin scrambled off Dwalin’s back and slumped on the ground beside him. ”You aren’t all fluff either, you know, ’m gonna be all bruised tomorrow. Shoulda stuck with Bombur instead of you.”

”Awful sorry,” Dwalin didn’t sound sorry, but he pulled Thorin closer to a one-armed embrace, and he was very warm despite not being soft or comfortable, so Thorin wasn’t about to complain. 

”Lemme kiss it better for you,” Dwalin smiled and pressed a whiskery kiss on Thorin’s cheek.

”Didn’t hit my head.”

”’m not kissing yer arse.”

Thorin snorted with laughter. Dwalin aimed another kiss at the general direction of Thorin’s forehead, but missed slightly and caught a mouthful of Thorin’s hair instead. Dwalin spluttered and tried to rid himself of a thoroughly unwanted evening snack. Thorin gave him a half-hearted shove.

”Leave m’hair alone, you, just ’cause you’re losing yours is no reason t’ eat mine.”

Dwalin kicked him in the shins.

”’m not _nearly_ drink enough to listen to that kinda talk.”

Thorin giggled. Mahal, Dwalin was _wasted_. 

”I bet you’re mostly drink by now.”

”Drunk. Meant. An’ what’re you then?”

”I only had a few. ’m not drunk. Slight-ly tipsy. Maybe.”

Dwalin snorted. 

”Right. A few kegs maybe.”

Thorin ripped a fistful of grass off the ground and threw it at Dwalin. Unfortunately, grass made a poor projectile and he only managed to sprinkle them both with bits of greenery. Oh well…

”Thorin?”

”Mmmmh?”

”Yen’t sleeping out here.”

”Wasn’t sleeping.”

”Was.”

”Not.”

”Was.”

”Not.”

”Was.”

”…”

” _Thorin_.”

”Mhm.”

”Right. Ge’up.”

Thorin protested weakly as Dwalin pushed himself to his knees and then dragged Thorin up to a half-way sitting position as well.

”’m getting up,” Thorin promised, though he was mostly just leaning on Dwalin and trying to force the earth beneath him to stop heaving. Shows what grass and soil were good for, really. He was sure proper stone would’ve had the decency to stay nice and still. Dwalin probably didn’t believe a word. He was looking at him oddly.

“Pretty,” Dwalin whispered.

“Huh?”

“You. Look pretty.”

Thorin couldn’t think of a way to answer that before he felt Dwalin’s lips press softly on his own.

*

In the next morning Thorin couldn’t have for all of their stolen gold told how the two of them had finally managed to get their feet beneath them, or how they’d found their way to the place Dwalin shared with Balin. He would’ve been willing to pay a substantial sum of that gold to anyone with the ability to make the searing throb behind his eyes disappear. And his thirst. He would’ve traded a lot for a bucketful of water.

Beside him Dwalin made an unintelligible gurgling sound. Thorin meant to ask him what he was trying to say, but his tongue seemed to lack the desire to co-operate, so all he managed was a desperate sort of groan. 

”Wa-uh.” Dwalin tried again.

”Not ge’ing up.” Thorin moaned.

”Floor.”

Thorin didn’t actually rise from the bed (his foggy brain succeeded in expressing some astonishment over the fact they had made it on the bed instead of passing out beside it), but he felt gingerly around the floor and found a full water-skin. Apparently Dwalin had planned ahead. He was a genius, may the Maker bless his beard.

Actually lifting the skin and drinking from it successfully proved to be slightly more of an ordeal that it should’ve been, considering they were a pair of adult dwarves and no strangers to taking care of themselves even in extreme hardship. On their defence, they were currently feeling very genuinely sorry for themselves, which wasn’t helped by spilled water soaking their clothes and the bedding.

They must have dozed off (for how long, Thorin had no idea) because the next thing they knew was being very rudely and painfully startled awake by a pair of enthusiastic dwarflings.

”Morning, uncle Thorin! Morning mister Dwalin!” Fíli greeted them as cheerfully as only a widely awake child could.

”Ama was feeling tired and she went back to bed after breakfast and she said that you and mister Dwalin would love to come with us!” Kíli said, voice bristling with excitement.

Thorin groaned and used most of his remaining strength to haul himself upright and out of the bed. Thankfully the room didn’t lurch all that much, but the dull throb inside his skull found a brand new edge.

”Good morning,” Thorin greeted his nephews in what he hoped was cheerful enough manner. ”Now, what exactly did your mother promise we’d do with you?”

”Go swimming!”

”It’s awful warm outside, but the Sun’s behind the clouds so it doesn’t hurt eyes,” Fíli explained. ”Miss Ysig said it’d be nice to let Mum sleep, and Mum said you’d come with us if we came to wake you up and ask, ’cause it’s res-ponsible that we ask and don’t go alone.”

Thorin might have been mentally cursing Dís, but he could hardly disagree. He suspected neither could Dwalin, though he had yet to give any sign that he’d be willing to move at all.

”Why’re you sleeping with one boot on, mister Dwalin?” Kíli asked curiously. ”Don’t you _know_ if you’re asleep before you can change into your nightclothes that means you’ve been up for much too late like a little _dwarfling_ that doesn’t know when he’s tired yet?” Kíli seemed absolutely beside himself with glee for a chance to reprimand Dwalin for something that he himself got to hear often enough. Thorin smirked despite his headache. 

”Right you are, both of you. Why don’t I go see if there’s something to eat in here, while you two get mister Dwalin out of bed.”

It was a testament to Dwalin’s battle-sharpened self-preservation instincts that he was _almost_ quick enough to move out of the way before he was assaulted by a pair of dwarflings. It would seem that Fíli had somehow found out a very well-kept secret: that  
Dwalin was extremely ticklish at the soles of his feet and behind his knees. He was currently abusing the knowledge for all he was worth, so Thorin was followed to the kitchen by shrieks of joy and a mixture of agonised threats and pleas for mercy.  
When Dwalin finally emerged from the bedroom, one squealing dwarfling under each arm (but still only wearing one boot) Thorin had a fire going in the stove, and strips of bacon sizzling in the frying pan.

”I’m cursed,” Dwalin grumbled melodramatically as he dropped both Fíli and Kíli to Balin’s armchair. ”These two are monsters wearing dwarf-skins, and so is the evil creature you call a sister, and so are you for all that matters. I’ve pledged my life in service of vicious bunch of goblins.”

”Aye, it’s not easy being you,” Thorin said, face and voice schooled to absolute seriousness. His hands were shaking a little around a mug of well-watered down ale, but his mood was much improved by the sight of Dwalin’s uncharacteristically milk-white face. He wasn’t above honest schadenfreude when the situation called for it. ”But brave heart, now, it’s just Mahal testing his finest warrior. I’m sure you’ll prevail.”

Dwalin fixed Thorin with a glare that would’ve had a lesser dwarf running out of the door. The threatening expression was somewhat ruined by his startled oath when Kíli sank his teeth to his hand.

” _Why?_ ” Dwalin demanded sounding utterly betrayed as he pried Kíli’s jaws from around his hand.

”You said we’re monsters! Monsters eat people!”

”They do, you’ve told us so yourself,” Fíli confirmed. 

”Did you two want bacon or are you just going to eat Dwalin?” Thorin asked as he scraped the meat on a plate and threw a couple of pieces of dried up bread on the pan. His talent was severely limited when it came to cooking, but he was just skilled enough to know dry bread became good again if it was soaked in grease while toasting.

“Bacon!” Fíli whooped.

“Put plates on the table, then.”

Fíli leaped to the task, and Kíli seemed to forego his attempts to chew on Dwalin in favour of a tastier meal as well.

“Are you really up for swimming?” Thorin asked Dwalin under his breath.

“Aye. Feel like diving head first to cool water’s just what I need about now.”

“Don’t you dare. The river’s shallow and I’ll not have you bash your head in on some rock.”

“Sounds like an added bonus to me.”

“Do you think we should put some food aside for Balin? Where is he anyway?” Thorin asked.

“Mister Balin slept in your chair,” Kíli supplied smugly. “He and Mum and mister Nori and missus Ystir and mister Hedrin and miss Ysig all stayed in playing cards _much_ past their bedtime and they slept in our house.”

“Ama made us eggs and sausage.” Fíli added. Kíli was sometimes so excited he almost forgot to eat, but Fíli didn’t suffer from such an ailment. He took after the boys’ late father and as it was, he was pretty much the only one in their immediate family who showed promise of growing up attractive.

“Can we go swimming now?” Kíli asked the second he polished the last bit of his food out of his plate. “I bet all the others are already there.”

“Bit young for laying wagers, aren’t you?” Dwalin commented wryly, some of his life and spirit regained with food. “And did you two think to bring your towels?”

“Yes!”

“Well, we was going to forget, but then mister Balin asked if we was forgetting something, and we’d already said good morning and thank you for food and asked if we could go-“

“And Mum was telling us to think real hard and then I remembered-“

“Only ‘cause she had them towels in hand-”

“And then Mum told us to come here and see if uncle was here with you or if she’d have to send a search party after you both.” 

Thorin and Dwalin made a quick wordless agreement not to comment on the definite self-satisfaction radiating from Fíli and Kíli. Instead Thorin stood to douse the fire and Dwalin went to retrieve his boot (which turned out to have found its way under Balin’s bed somehow) before the four of them started towards the river.

*

Dwalin sat down next to Thorin on the riverbank. He had been right about feeling better after spending some time submerged in cool water. Fíli and Kíli had tired themselves out and were napping in a haphazard pile with several other dwarflings.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked quietly.

“About what?”

“Playing dumb doesn’t suit you, Thorin.”

“Dwalin…”

He figured he’d have the ale to blame. It wasn’t the only reason, but he’d blame it nevertheless. Thorin was hardly the picture of dwarven beauty, even less so than Dwalin himself, but there was something about his oldest friend that drew the eye. Maybe it was just Thorin’s stone-stubborn refusal to be defeated that gave most people a pause. Dwalin had very few clear memories from Azanulbizar, just a few shards of clarity among the bloody haze, and he figured he was probably better off for it. The massacre wasn’t something he’d like to remember in detail. But one of the images that had stayed with him was Thorin, battered and wounded and spitting up blood, clawing his way back to his feet in front of that pale monster of an orc. Thorin holding his ground armed with a stray piece of wood, and about to die. Dwalin could still taste the terror being surrounded by orcs and helpless to do anything but watch. 

_Oakenshield_ the people had named Thorin afterwards. Even the ones who cursed the line of Durin for being the instigators of the blood-bath before the gates of Moria commended his actions against Azog. Dwalin wanted to shake the lot of them until their teeth fell out for not understanding. They spoke as if it was some special bout of heroism and bravery that had earned Thorin his second name, but anyone who had a clue of his personality could’ve told the whole thing was just _Thorin_ all over. Besides, Dwalin had seen him before he’d stepped out of his tent after Thráin had vanished, to face their still homeless and horribly beaten people who would now call him King. Deathly pale from sleepless nights, grief and his wounds, he’d never seen Thorin more terrified. He’d never seen him more brave.

 _We’re still here. It’s not over yet_ was one lesson of Thráin’s Thorin had taken to heart, too much so perhaps. More than Thráin himself had, in the end. _We’re still here._ Thorin had hissed from behind gritted teeth when the funeral pyres were lit, like repeating a prayer, and maybe that’s what it had been. Calling out for the dead so they’d see that some of them had survived as the bloodied smoke filled their lungs and the merciless Sun blinded them and burned their skin. Dead or alive, it seemed they were fated to burn. _Despite everything we’re still here and we’re not done yet._ Dwalin suspected that the mantra had been the only thing that had kept Thorin going in the days and months that followed. Dwalin would never begrudge him for it; he himself had held on by resolving to be there for the loved ones he still had left after his father had fallen with countless others. He supposed he had been half in love with his best friend ever since the numb haze of grief and shock had faded enough for him to feel anything at all. 

So he’d kissed Thorin last night. Not on the forehead or knuckles, which was common enough among friends, but on the lips. Thorin had reached out to brush his fingers against his cheek, yes, but then he had turned his head away. A clear enough message even for a drunken fool.

The quiet between them made Dwalin’s skin crawl. It wasn’t uncommon for them to spend long stretches of time in comfortable silence, but this silence wasn’t comfortable. It hung heavy between them and made it harder to breathe. Knife to his throat, Dwalin couldn’t have repeated his halting attempts to explain, to apologise, to say something that would get a reaction out of Thorin who had his eyes fixed on the sleeping children and was very pointedly not looking at Dwalin. Yet, when he couldn’t take it anymore and made it to leave (to flee, in truth), Thorin reached out to grab him by the arm and halt him. 

"Thorin, _say something_.”

“What do you want?”

“What?”

“What do you want?”

“What do I- Thorin, I’ve not been all that… _eloquent_ , but… I think I’ve made it pretty clear of… of what I’d like.” 

“I don’t. Want it.”

“Aye, I sort of figured that out. I’m sorry fo-“

Thorin shook his head tersely like he was trying to get rid of something painful burrowing under his skin. 

“It’s not you. With anyone. I don’t want to share a bed with anyone. Not like you do.”

Dwalin was trying to reconcile simultaneously feeling extreme discomfort of having this conversation in the first place, a lurch of disappointment and a surge of relief that Thorin hadn’t just told him to fuck off. He found he wasn’t really all that surprised to hear of Thorin’s lack of sexual desire, since he’d never expressed interest in anyone. It wasn’t uncommon either, so he wasn’t exactly sure why Thorin had been so unwilling to just say so. 

“I’m sorry,” Dwalin said quietly. “For that kiss.”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t… unpleasant, really. And besides it had nothing on what Frerin would inflict on anyone who’d stay still for long enough.”

“Or any _thing_. The times I saw him kiss his pony goodnight…”

And finally, _finally_ , Thorin smiled. A brief flash of crooked grin was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“You could have anyone, you know. Or close enough,” Thorin said abruptly. 

“Thorin…”

“You could. You’re the most- you’re every bit as _good_ as your reputation, that’s rare enough as it is. More so with your reputation.”

“Thorin, I don’t want just anyone, I want you.”

Mahal, he did **not** just say that out loud. 

“I told you, I don’t-“

“I didn’t mean- I don’t just want a shag, I want- I mean if you-“

Dwalin desperately wished for his axes and a horde of orcs. Or anything as blessedly simple he absolutely knew how to deal with. Gingerly he reached out to lay a hand on Thorin’s shoulder, more awkward than he’d ever felt in his life.

“I’ll just go if you want, I’ll go and never speak of this again, but… I’d have… this, if you want. Just this. You. If it’s… I mean, this is good for you? Isn’t it?”

Thorin looked at him at last, and for once Dwalin had no idea how to decipher the look on his face. Then, with a shuddering exhale Thorin leaned against Dwalin and reached for his hand almost as if he was reaching out to pick up glowing iron. Dwalin probably shouldn’t have been glad for a tangible sign that Thorin was just as nervous and clueless as he was, but there you are.

“Yeah. This is good,” Thorin whispered and squeezed Dwalin’s fingers a little.

“What do you want?” Dwalin was fully aware he might not get an answer. For all that Thorin was a King, and had been a prince, precious few people ever asked for what he wanted. After the dragon they hadn’t had a lot of alternatives other than finding work where they could and trying to survive. Anyone’s wants did not feature in their life in exile for a long time. Thorin took it to the extreme, though, he was always reluctant to ask for anything, more so if it was just for himself. He usually gave non-committal answers at best or told he didn’t need anything. He was an incredibly frustrating person to give gifts to.

True enough, Thorin held his silence for a long while. If it weren’t for his thumb running a probably unconscious caress across a scar on his hand, Dwalin might have suspected Thorin had fallen asleep with his head resting against Dwalin’s shoulder. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

“Sleep with me.” Thorin’s voice was so quiet by now Dwalin felt his words more than he heard them. 

“I’d like for you to just… _sleep_ , with me- if it’s enough, I mean, you don’t have to…”

Dwalin turned so that he could press his forehead against Thorin’s. He felt like that was altogether a better answer than simple okay.

“Sober, you mean?”

“Optional.”

Dwalin snorted and he felt Thorin let out a huff of amusement as well. The conversation had wrung him out worse than any physical labour could and he felt oddly giddy.

“Oh, and about my reputation. Just so you know, I can’t actually kill orcs just by looking at them.”

“Ever tried?”

It felt good to laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> "Are you drink enough?" is a joke shamelessly stolen from Korpiklaani.


End file.
